June 6, 2014

Spoilers are a weapon, so let's stop hurting each other

Share the joy, but don't wreck it.

By
Mitch Dyer

Game of Thrones has made me fear the people I am close to.

My roommate, my coworkers, my girlfriend, and many of my friends have read George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, the books on which HBO’s Game of Thrones is based. I try not to discuss it with them. I am terrified to learn more about Game of Thrones’ gripping story, unpredictable events, and devastating character twists any later than Sunday night. I want to consume its story the way its creators intended -- even if it isn't in the same medium those around me consumed it. Certain people have made that a disheartening challenge.

In my experience, sensitivity to spoilers is a weakness. Knowledge is the weapon used to shame, rob, or belittle those who wish to share in the joy of something somebody else already enjoyed.

This isn’t always the case, but even a small number of flippant fans can destroy an experience for the blissfully ignorant.

Warning: Spoilers above.

On Monday, April 15, an email subject line spoiled the ending of April 14’s episode of Game of Thrones, “The Lion and the Rose,” for numerous IGN editors. The episode hadn’t even aired 24 hours before this press release ruined a major, unexpected character death. Many (not all, mercifully) who’d read A Storm of Swords, the third novel in the series, were unsympathetic to my concern, or my coworkers’ unhappiness.

“You should have read the book,” some said.

To their credit, A Storm of Swords is 14 years old. But I disagree with the sentiment that the statute of limitations on Game of Thrones spoilers has not expired. Contrarily, it has been renewed.

A Song of Ice and Fire has sold more than 24 million copies across its five books, according to a 2013 Reuters report. Those best-sellers’ numbers are nothing to scoff at.

But Game of Thrones’ induction into the mainstream means that many, many new people have become interested in the material. 6.6 million people watched the season premiere of Game of Thrones Season 4. Many of them probably didn’t know how “The Lion and the Rose” would eventually end, or what would happen in the following episodes, or who lives on in the next book. But the response, by and large, was to broadcast what happened to everyone -- regardless of whether or not they wanted to know quite yet.

We shouldn’t expect everyone to be as culturally literate as ourselves.

I wonder if knee-jerk social media behavior has given real-life conversations a similar sense of urgency. The excitement of monumental story events means some people speak faster than they can think. Maybe the opt-in follow systems of various social media leads us to speak freely to those willing to listen. Perhaps we’re not always aware of who happens to be standing near the virtual water cooler at any given moment.

That spoilers appear in website headlines the moment an episode finishes is similarly frustrating. What does this character’s death mean? Where does the story go now that this happened? Even casting news tends to give away things I don’t want to know. Oh, this actor only signed on for one season of The Walking Dead? Well, then.

Twitter, Facebook, and our email inboxes have become mine fields -- and I’m not always a victim.

I am equally scared of getting something spoiled as I am of ruining something for somebody else -- so I just don’t talk about movies or shows I’m watching, games I’m playing, or books I’m reading in detail anymore. I worry I’ll slip into casually ruining everything for someone. Ideally, we label conversations about The Last of Us' biggest secrets appropriately, that way folks know what they're in for when they enter a conversation.

Most people in my life who have spoiled something for me end up apologizing profusely. The sender of the Lion and the Rose spoiler email actually sent a basket of wine and cheese to IGN to apologize. Fewer, but enough to make me a reclusive Game of Thrones viewer, do not feel such remorse.

They knew -- how could I not?

Partially, I don’t think it’s really their fault. In the consumer’s mind, would-be spoilers are a common, simple piece of information ingrained in their mind. Certain Star Wars spoilers, Lord of the Rings details, or True Detective story beats are as notable in my mind as my shirt size. They just sort of are, because I’ve been there. But those moments matter for those who haven’t. Plot twists, reveals, character developments, and other changes are important to someone’s experience, because not everyone is as aware of a particular piece of media, no matter how mainstream, as you may be.

Not everyone can consume everything, or knows they even have an interest in a particular game, movie, book, or TV show yet. We shouldn’t expect everyone to be as culturally literate as ourselves. Do we tailor conversation to preserve the purity of the experience? Censoring how we talk about something that affects us inhibits how we’re able to further enjoy those moments, though. It’s a hard balance. I don’t know how we determine the boundaries. I just know I have my limits, and that I’d like more people to be aware of the potential damage they’re doing.

I'm not saying we should stop having discussions about The Viper and the Mountain or the latest episode of The Walking Dead. IGN's Daniel Krupa made the great point that "Extreme spoilerphobia in the end doesn’t stop people from finding out what happens, it just stops us from having those conversations when it’s most vital." I love discussing spoilers -- but only with those who are on the same page. It's hard to know who those people are, especially in a world where the cultural understanding of certain major plot points is an expectation, not an exception.

I'd just like our conversations to be more careful and considerate. I'm confused as to why someone who appreciates something as gratifying as Game of Thrones -- or any other story, for that matter -- would strip that happiness away from someone looking to share in it.

It's not all lost, though. Today, a gentleman on my morning commute asked me what I was reading. Game of Thrones, I told him, to learn the nuances of a television world I adore. "Awesome," he said. "You have a lot ahead of you and I don't want to ruin it, so I'll leave you alone. Enjoy."